


Light Dancing Through Water

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: by AntigoneSam's thoughts while making love to Frodo.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Kudos: 2
Collections: Least Expected





	Light Dancing Through Water

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: Frodo and Sam belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I belong to Elijah Wood.
> 
> Feedback: Is craved. Sadly enough, it's what I live for.
> 
> Story Notes: WARNINGS: Not for the faint of heart.
> 
> This story is based on the books. If you've only seen the movie it'll still make sense, but not as much, and you might not get some (minor & major) details.
> 
> I realise that -even though it's Sam's Point of View- in many parts the language quite differs from the one he actually uses in LotR. When writing, however, I was trying to look directly into his heart and put his feelings to words; "translate" them, in a way, because I feel that while he's totally aware of his deep love for Frodo, he's not (always) able to elaborate on it. Not in this situation, anyway.
> 
> Special thanks to Bill for commenting and -unknowingly- suggesting the title. and Suz, for a thorough beta and the most encouraging feedback I ever got. This story is dedicated to her.

If water were truly blue, Galadriel's phial would look as beautiful as your eyes: the luminous light of the summer's evening-star set amidst a vivid, sapphire-coloured brilliance. A brilliance that's even brighter when night is about, that illuminates people and places alike, radiating hope and bravery from somewhere deep inside.

For it's your eyes, Frodo that persuaded us to follow you; the way they shine with determination, even in the deepest darkness of Moria. The way they burn with an intensity that feels like it could never cease to exist, that inspires unbelievable strength and total devotion.

And oh, how I've always wanted them to look at me with devotion similar to that which I dedicated to you.

Gently, I cup the left side of your face in my palm, turn it towards me, and with strong fingers trace the fine line of the cheekbone, your full lips, the soft skin just underneath your jaw. Careful as I am, my gardener's hand looks suspiciously rough against your elvish face, and for a moment I almost draw it away, afraid to spoil or hurt your smooth, even skin.

Then your head slowly tilts off to the side and, though I'm still not sure about my hands, I can't help but slide my fingers across your now exposed neck. Relieved, I realise that they move easily, without causing any harm... and then there's that sudden itch; the desperate need to touch more of your translucent skin.

I abandon my kneeling position next to your body and lie atop you, shifting a bit until our legs are locked together and my face is a mere breath away from yours. Your lowered lashes cast fine shadows across the upper halves of your cheeks and I, too, close my eyes in anticipation before softly bringing my lips down to yours.

Oh Frodo! Your mouth is as exquisite and intoxicating as the rest of you, soft and yielding; the wet, full lips tasting and feeling like a ripe piece of fruit. I gasp and kiss you more passionately, while at the same time, my fingers undo the clasp at your tunic, slipping firmly inside.

Horror grips me at the freezing cold I encounter, and a bitter laugh escapes my own lips as I lay my forehead down on your chest. Nervous fingers play with the chain around your neck, instinctively trying to seek out and avoid that icy smoothness at the same time.

The Ring.

Yes, it's true, Frodo; my earlier fears were unfounded. The only thing here that has the power to hurt, to spoil you and me both and destroy everything we hold dear is The One. "To bear a Ring of Power is to be alone," the Lady Galadriel said and I wonder if, in all Her wisdom, She also thought of the ones left behind. Left behind by a beautiful, kind person who refuses to succumb to temptation over and over again - who suffers, and hurts, and turns away, all for the greater good and the wish to save a friend. A friend who won't let you go, Frodo, no matter how hard you try. Because all I see is your suffering, and I only desire the Ring not to deteriorate your soul.

Don't leave me alone, my dear. Please don't turn away, and go where I can't follow.

For a moment, I think I see your lips twitch in a smile at the favour I ask of you; and it's an idea probably not too far-fetched, for you are certainly not going anywhere with your body firmly buried beneath mine. Now that your tunic's been taken care of, my fingers move on to the buttons of your shirt, and I help you to raise your arms and get out of the sleeves. Even with the mithril coat still there, I can now see so much more of your skin that it's overwhelming and, careful to avoid the Ring, I kiss my way from the soft edges of your collar bone to the curve where your neck meets the shoulder.

The scent of your skin is just like the taste of your lips, Frodo; sweet and intense, evoking memories of Shire's breeze in late summer, joyful celebrations, and vivid, sapphire-coloured eyes. It leaves me with nothing but the knowledge that I want to get lost in it, in you, your body, your soul; that I want to kiss you and worship you, and never let you go again.

For that is what you deserve, Frodo: to be worshipped and loved, touched with nothing but care, tenderness, and affection. The mithril coat now out of the way, I cover your chest with soft caresses, lost in creamy skin and the vain attempt to make up for all the times orcs and other foul creatures have come anigh you. My right hand undoes the fastenings of our trousers, just as the other encounters the still visible gash below your left shoulder, and I shiver with both anticipation and guilt as your legs fall open and I move between them.

I don't want to hurt you, Frodo, I never could; otherwise I'd be even worse than those loathsome beings, inflicting pain not with a hateful, but loving touch. And don't doubt that I love you, Frodo, deeply and profoundly; and have for as long as I can remember. I've loved you since the time I first set eyes upon your elvish face, since the days a joyful, spirited tweenager would play hide-and-seek with the gardener's boy in the long grass beyond Hobbiton's fields. I love you for the laughter we shared, for the songs you used to sing, for the secrets we'd tell each other in the branches of Shire's oak trees, watching sunsets and dusk bleeding into the early evening sky.

And more than anything, I love you for your eyes, Frodo; eyes as beautiful and bright as any flower, eyes that are more vivid and alive than any garden; that put starlight, the nightsky, and Galadriel's phial to shame, and will you just open them, and look at me once again?

Open your eyes, Frodo, please open your eyes! Tell me where else I'm supposed to draw strength and bravery from, enough to carry the Ring to Mount Doom? Will you look at me? Don't just lie there - move and open your eyes! Are you listening, Frodo?

Open them, please! Open them...

When I finally collapse onto your body, your face is covered with tears, but they are not yours, for your eyes are never going to cry again. With shivering hands, I raise your head and move trembling fingers to the nape of your neck, stroking and feeling the dried droplets of blood from where Shelob has stung you. Eventually, I disentangle myself from your body, put my garments back on and then yours, carefully buttoning up your breeches and shirt. I then gently compose your cold limbs, fold your cloak about you, and lay Faramir's staff down on one side and my sword at the other.

Please, Frodo, forgive your Sam. I did not mean to yell at you. I did not mean to separate you from Sting, to take Galadriel's star-glass, and leave you dead and unburied on top of the mountains, covered with nothing but my own touch.

I did not mean for you to die.

But the Ring must be destroyed, and I will need the phial, for I will always be in the dark now. The Lady gave it to you, but maybe She'd understand. Do you understand? I've got to go on.

Good-bye Frodo, my dear. Rest you quiet till I come back to this spot, for I will when the job's done - if I manage it. And then I shall not leave you again.

If the Lady could hear me and grant me one wish, let me return; let it be swift, and let it be soon. So that when I come back I find you again, and no foul creature has come anigh you, no foulness at all; they didn't touch you, and your features are still beautiful; your skin smooth and stainless like Alabaster.

And when I bury my face in your hair, in your neck, I can smell the soft sweetness of Shire's evening breeze, the grass beneath our bodies... and you, who tastes like summer, like freedom, like horizon; like the fierce spirit that only you possessed, and I close my eyes, and clutch your body, and am amazed by the sheer beauty of it.

Even if you don't open your eyes.

(Fin.)  
07.01.2002


End file.
